White Collar: Cross-Dressing, Halloween Style
by Ruahnna
Summary: Halloween parties are all about costumes and surprises. When the White Collar hospitality committee plans a Halloween party at work, it doesn't take much for things to go awry.


**Title:** Cross-Dressing, Halloween Style

**Rating**: Gen

**Genre/Relationship: **Peter/El, Neal/Sara,The whole FBI White Collar crew

**Spoilers:** None

**Word Count:** 5,211

**Summary:** Halloween parties are all about costumes and surprises. When the White Collar hospitality committee plans a Halloween party at work, it doesn't take much for things to go awry.

**A/N:** Written for **love_82** 's prompt "The White Collar division has a party for Halloween and everyone dresses up." on October 9, 2013 (Sorry I'm late!)

While not strictly hurty-comforty, there is a certain amount of psychological discomfort and a lot of tweaking….

**Cross-Dressing, Halloween Style**

This lunch meeting was hardly clandestine, but the occupants of the table looked around automatically to make sure they weren't overheard. Peter had said he was working through lunch, so this seemed a good time to do a little catch-up.

"El—are you _sure_ Peter's going to be okay with this? He was pretty aggravated the last time I went…um…_off-book_. I don't want to end up on his bad side."

El smiled and stirred her coffee lazily, smiling across the tiny table. "I don't think you should worry about it too much," she said finally. "I'm pretty sure this is covered by _exigent circumstances_."

Across the table, a pair of well-groomed eyebrows rose. "_Really_?"

After a moment of pressing her lips firmly together to avoid an outburst, Elizabeth Burke nodded. "Yep," she insisted. "That's my story and I'm sticking with it."

"So you're saying that if I just follow him, um, where he's going…then I won't necessarily be responsible for what is seen."

"Or shown," El said shrewdly.

"Ah." There was an artful smile—a _wicked_ smile.

"And besides—_technically_, you'll be following orders, right?"

"Does Peter know how sneaky you are?"

El's smile was answer enough.

"I'm going to _kill_ the hospitality committee," Diana muttered. She'd been working up to a full head of steam all week, punctuated by occasional outbursts of audible muttering and inaudible swearing. Of those who worked closest to her, no one was bothered—or surprised. Clinton, especially, seemed to be taking a perverse pleasure in her annoyance.

"It's just a _party_," Clinton said for the 13th time (that day). "Why are you getting so worked up about a _party_?"

"It's not _just_ a party," Diana snapped. "It's a _costume_ party. I _hate_ costume parties."

"Why?" Clinton's expression made it plain he thought her attitude was a waste of energy.

"Yeah," said Neal, joining them in the kitchenette. "You like clothes. What's with the party-pooping?"

"Caffrey—!"

"I'll bet Christie _loves_ costume parties," Neal said, giving his best pouty face.

"She _does_!" Diana said accusingly. Neal and Clinton exchanged looks, which did _nothing_ to soothe her ruffled feathers.

"Don't _give_ me that look," the irate agent said. Neal and Clinton pointed at each other.

"I was looking at—"

"I wasn't even—"

"Oh, _can it_, won't you?" Diana said. She stopped washing her coffee mug (Neal estimated she'd scrubbed it hard enough to wear the FBI seal off the side of the mug.) and stomped over to the pot, but when she reached for the steaming carafe, Neal was already there.

"You're not in a mood to handle hot liquids," Neal said, and put on his best bartender's face. He poured her cup full, handed it to her and smiled—the smile that usually had his marks telling _all_ their secrets. So wrapped up in her own misery was Diana that she hardly noticed. "There. Drink up," he coaxed. Over her head, Neal flashed Clinton a look that said, "Let me handle this—I'll fill you in later," and the tall, broad-shouldered agent made himself scarce. "So…," said Neal. "What's all the angst about?"

"The party's tomorrow and I don't have a costume."

Neal shrugged. "So cut two holes in a sheet and you're set. Or borrow some scrubs from your honey. Ooh! Better yet—doesn't Christie have a nurse outfit that would fit you? Because you'd look—"

Any inroads Neal had made were quashed by the frosty look she was giving him now.

"Sorry," Neal muttered. "I—I don't know what I was thinking."

"_I_ know what you were thinking," Diana muttered. "And if I _catch_ you thinking it _again_—"

Neal had his hands up in the air, eyes wide but not quite innocent. While she glared, he smiled his best con-man smile. The image was almost irresistible and Diana found herself smiling back in spite of herself. She shook her head.

"So…what's all the drama-trauma?" he asked.

"I don't know."

Neal said nothing, but his eyebrows conveyed his skepticism (never kid a kidder) and Diana made a face. "_Really_? Because I was just—"

"The Incredible Hulk."

Neal's eyebrows continued their climb.

"The Incredible Hulk?" The conversation had taken a left turn somewhere and he was lost.

"Yes. You know—big, green, has an anger-management problem…?"

"I know who he is," Neal said. That was about _all_ he knew at the moment.

Diana looked at him, at his ill-concealed confusion, and twirled her hair around her finger.

"Well, _I_ wanted to be The Incredible Hulk."

"I can see that," Neal murmured, but subsided when Diana shot him an annoyed look.

"But I didn't _get_ to be The Hulk."

"_Incredible_."

"Caffrey!"

"Sorry—I—"

"If you _want_ me to tell you the rest—"

"I do." She was looking at him, her eyes intense, and his own eyes softened in response. Neal stood down. He poured himself a cup of coffee, sat down at the table and motioned for Diana to do the same. "I do," he said when she was seated. "I want to hear the rest."

Diana looked at the mug on the table as though crystal-gazing, then she smiled a quick, nervous grimace. "My mom thought it would be unseemly for the daughter of a diplomat to go to a community event as The Hulk." Diana took a sip of her coffee. "I had to go as Wonder Woman."

"I am so sorry," Neal intoned. His voice was solemn but his blue eyes were sparking with mischief. "I don't suppose there are any _pictures_—"

"Neal, so _help_ me—"

"I'm _trying_."

"You can say _that_ again," she muttered. Neal gave her a look, but she gave it right back to him.  
"So…you didn't get to be what you wanted."

"No."

"When you were…what? Ten?"

"Eleven," Diana muttered.

"But _now_…."

"Now?"

"_Now_," Neal said. "You _can_ be what you want, right? You _and_ Christie can…come to the Halloween party as _anything you want_."

Diana's real smile was back, and it curved her mouth up at the corners, making her beautiful. "Yeah. I guess we can."

"Darn tootin'," said Neal. "And if you're taking suggestions—"

"We're _not_," Diana said. She stood and glowered at Neal through her grin. "You'll just have to wait and see what we decide to wear."

Neal stood, too, seeing Peter look their way. "Oh, well. Just for _that_," he said, "I'm not going to tell you what _I'm_ going to come as."

"And art thief," Diana said flatly.

"We're supposed to come as something _different_," Neal countered.

"Charlie Chaplin," Diana said as she walked out. Neal made a face and straightened his tie.

"I'm _taller_," he called after her, but she was already gone.

When Blake walked over with his cup of coffee, looking nervously behind him, he might as well have been wearing a sign that said, "Boy, am _I_ up to something suspicious!" Neal fought back a smile. No undercover work for Opie, here.

"How's the betting pool?" said Blake out of the corner of his mouth.

Neal touched Socrates' head instinctively before smiling his welcome-to-the-circus smile "Are you asking as a concerned citizen or an FBI agent?" he said pleasantly.

"I'm asking as a guy who has fifty bucks says Big Bad Burke comes as Mario." Neal's smile grew broader. He'd _started_ that rumor, and it was going like gangbusters. Plus, Peter might actually _do_ it—he might often be the smartest man in the room, but he wasn't always the most creative, so a little suggestion, a little innuendo…. And Neal _could_ use a new pair of shoes.

"Mario it is," said Neal, and they made the deal. Neal put the cash in a little lockbox in his bottom desk drawer and gave Blake a receipt, which disappeared with alacrity into his pants pocket.

"So, what do you think Hughes will be coming—"

Peter rounded the corner from the files and Blake startled but continued gamely.

"—to say to us, um, later today?" Blake finished. He sipped his coffee with a tell-tale flush crept up his neck.

"He's probably coming to say, 'Do you think Agent Blake needs more work to do? He seems kind of _un_busy.'" Blake took the hint and scuttled back to his own desk. When he left, Neal leaned back in his chair and put his shoes on the edge of the desk. Peter pushed them over and leaned a hip against the corner, squinting at Neal in a way that usually made Neal squirm whether he was up to something or not. "So..." said Peter.

"So…?"

"So, how's the betting pool? Can you make it worth my while to show up in blue coveralls?"

Neal almost choked on his coffee, and his feet slid off the desk with a bang.

"I, um, Peter, I don't know what you're—"

"Keep it under wraps when Hughes is around, okay?" said Peter. He slipped Neal a five-spot, sliding the bill under the edge of his C.I.'s blotter. "And put me down for five bucks says Hughes comes as Frank Sinatra."

Yvonne was doing what she did exceptionally well—multitasking. Well, managing El while _she_ multitasked, to be more precise.

"And don't forget the spider cupcakes," El was saying. "Remember, the bakery—

"—promised to have them here by 3. They already confirmed by text," she said. "Two more stops and they're here." She beamed at Elizabeth, pleased to have proven invaluable again. El smiled back and shook her head.

"If I got run over by a taxi, you'd be just fine without me, wouldn't you?"

"We would _miss_ you," said Yvonne, "but _yes_, we'd be fine—at least for _this_ party. Speaking of—if you are going to have time to get ready to _attend_ this party, you need to scoot."

"I do," said El. "Just let me—"

Yvonne was in her way, smiling and friendly, but blocking the way to the storeroom. El stopped short, looked at her assistant with narrowed eyes, then sighed. "Okay, okay," she said. "I can take a hint."

"Then _take_ one," said Yvonne. "Get gone already. Get all dolled up and go out with that hunky husband of yours, okay?"

Elizabeth smiled. "He _is_ hunky, isn't he?" she said, wrinkling her nose. "Even when he's obsessing about work."

"Can't imagine what _that_ looks like…." Yvonne rolled her eyes expressively.

El laughed, then sighed and turned determinedly around. She squared her shoulders and walked toward the door. She _almost_ made it, turning at the last minute to say something to her assistant, but her assistant was already gone. El laughed at herself, and in another moment, she was gone, too.

"So, Berrigan doesn't like costume parties?" said Jenkins. "Huh. Go figure. She likes _clothes_."

"_Caffrey_ likes clothes—what's your point?"

"You're _making_ my point. Caffrey loves all that dress-up stuff, so he likes costume parties. Why doesn't Berrigan?"

"I have no idea. It's not like she can't rock a look. There was this one case we worked—do you remember that politician—Jennings?"

"Senator who was corrupt?" He laughed. "Show me one who isn't!"

Clinton snorted. "Yeah, well, anyway—Diana went undercover for that one, and—"

"Ooh! I _heard_ about that one. You mean she went _undercover_," Jenkins said, his eyes wide.

"Actually, she didn't," said Neal, apparating out of nowhere. Jones and Jenkins both jumped, and Clinton turned and scowled at the C.I., who beamed at him shamelessly.

"Really? Cause I heard—"

"Really," said Neal. "I know. I was undercover as her mark. She was all business."

"All…?"

Neal leaned closer to Jenkins, his voice pitched low. "If she catches you speculating about, um, _you know_, she's liable to rip your tongue out."

Jenkins snorted, but he put a cautious hand to his mouth all the same.

"If you don't believe me, ask Jones. Right, Jones?"

"Huh?" Clinton seemed a million miles away.

Jenkins said, "Hey," and Neal waved his hand in front of the taller agent's face, and Clinton snapped back to the present.

"Wanna share?" asked Neal.

"Yeah—where'd you go?"

"What? Oh—nothing. Nothing, really. I was just, um, thinking about the party."

"Me, too," said Jenkins. "I'm gonna come as an M&M. What about _you_, Caffrey? You have a costume?"

"Oh, well…." Neal demurred, the master of misdirection, but Clinton snorted again.

"Are you kidding me? He comes in here everyday and it's vaudeville."

"I think you mean _Saville Row_," Neal said, unperturbed. "But what about it, Jones—you got a costume?"

"Not yet," said Clinton, a smirk on his face. "But I've got a pretty good idea."

"You're not going to get in trouble for this, are you?" said Sara, eying Neal's costume assessingly.

"Probably," said Neal, grinning at her in the mirror. "Why—are you worried about me?"

Sara reached out and touched his hair. "I'm more worried about your _hair_," she said. "Could you end up _stuck_ like this?"

Neal made a face. "I could end up _stuck_ all right," he said, "but it won't be because of the hair." He raised his eyebrows at her. "Speaking of…?"

She made a face at him. "I'm _getting to it_," she said. "I'm just waiting until I'm dressed. Zip me?"

Neal obliged, or rather he _appeared_ to, and Sara squawked and grabbed at the neckline of the dress.

"Zip me _up_!" she squeaked, and Neal gave her a look of injured innocence. _God, he could bottle that look and __**sell**__ it_, Sara thought.

"Oh," said Neal. "If you had a _preference_, you should have _specified_…."

"I _do_ have a preference," said Sara. She grabbed his lapels and kissed him, then leaned in to whisper her pleasure. Neal's reaction was suitably stupefied

"We could _totally _do that," he said, and reached for her, but she smirked and danced away.

"Not so fast, Caffrey," she teased. "You're a man of the law now." She tucked the last of her own hair up under the band, then bent and brought the wig to her head.

"Not quite," said Neal, his grin flashing as he adjusted his tie.

Sara straightened, no longer red-headed, and surveyed herself in the mirror next to Neal. "Not terrible," she said. "And I understand you have a thing for brunettes…."

"Depends on the brunette," said Neal, and smiled. He looked at her, at the sophisticated cut of the dress, the tasteful jewelry. A little less flashy than Sara's own style, but nice—very nice. This _suit_ on the other hand…..

"You know," said Neal, conversationally. "We could cure homelessness with this suit. I'm pretty sure that a least a dozen homeless people could move into this suit and—"

"Oh, hush. It's not that bad. So everybody's not a clothes horse like you."

"Said the woman with a walk-in closet for her _shoes_."

"It's not a walk-in closet—just a regular one." said Sara. "It just makes them easier to get to."

"Speaking of—" He caught her to him.

_Hmmm_, she thought. Caffrey might not _look_ like his usual self, but he sure _kissed_ like his usual self. She leaned into it, one hand going to his face.

"Watch the hair," he murmured against her mouth. "If you touch it, it's liable to break." 

Now that the die was cast, Peter was having second thoughts. He looked at his wife uncertainly. He pulled on the lapels of his coat, shrugging just a little to ease the breadth of his shoulders. He looked at himself critically in the mirror, straightened his tie. "You think I should have done the Mario thing?" he asked. "You could have been Princess Peach."

"Though I admit the idea of being a princess has definite appeal, I'd much rather be the plus-one of a man who works for the FBI."

Peter arched an eyebrow at her. "Any man in particular?"

"Well, there is this _one_—tall, handsome, kind of a maverick…."

"Sounds intriguing."

"He _is_," El said. "And he's recently taken quite an interest in high fashion…."

"He's taken quite an interest in _you_."

"I _had_ noticed that." She came to stand beside him, looking at him in the mirror on their bedroom wall. What she saw made her smile. "Not bad, Agent Burke," said Elizabeth, patting him on the fanny before sliding her arms around her waist. "Looking good." Her up-tilted lips just _begged_ to be kissed, so Peter kissed them, his arms molding her closer…. There wasn't quite enough give in the jacket for him to complete the embrace without threatening the integrity of the seams, so he contented himself by resting them in the sweet sway of her back.

"As long as I don't have to _breathe_," Peter said. June had come through like gangbusters, but he would have preferred a little more room, well, _everywhere_.

"Breathing's for weenies," El said. "Besides, you're going to be a huge hit."

"_We're_ going to be a huge hit," Peter said. He shot her a look. "I like that dress."

"I am _so glad_ you do," said Elizabeth. "Remember how much you like it when you get the bill, okay?"

"I'll remember," Peter said, and claimed another kiss. Her proximity was making his collar feel tight, and the suit was already snug. Diplomatically, she released him and turned away, picking up the dress in question to hold it up before her.

The color, something Peter would have called blue-green but El had called "frosted teal" made her blue eyes glow.

"Oh yeah," said Peter. "You're going to look _amazing_ in that."

Elizabeth turned on him, laughing. "_Going to_?" she demanded. "What do you _mean_, _going to_? You are sooo going to pay for that!"

Peter's mouth dropped open in surprise and he started to back-pedal madly, realizing too late the trap he'd walked into. She took advantage of his confusion—and his open mouth—and exacted her due.

Maverick or not, Peter followed orders like a pro.

"She is going to kill you," said Jenkins. "But it will be worth it."

"I may die of embarrassment first," Clinton said.

Jenkins gave him a careful once-over. "Turn around again. Let me see the—"

"Will you knock it off?" Jones snapped. Nevertheless, he turned and regarded the back of the costume nervously. He _knew_ it had to be longer than it _felt_, but he wanted to make sure. What had started as a funny idea had blossomed into a full-scale prank, but he was beginning to wonder just _who_ was getting pranked here.

"This is going to be freakin _awesome_," Jenkins said, grinning hugely. "Can you get around in it?"

"If I don't sit down." Clinton took a couple of steps and stumbled a little. "Or walk."

"Well…practice a little. I hear that helps."

Clinton turned and gave him a look. "Hear from _who_?" he demanded.

Jenkins shrugged, grinning. "I get around." His eyebrows rose and Clinton saw an idea bloom on the seasoned agent's face. "As a matter of fact, if you're looking for a _date_—"

"I can get my own date!" Clinton snapped, taking one more anxious look at the get-up.

"I'll just bet you can," said Jenkins, then laughed and got out of range before Jones took a swing at him.

Christie had a wonderful, infectious giggle. It was one of the things Diana had loved about her from the beginning. She, herself, did not have a giggle in her repertoire, but she sure liked to listen to Christie's.

"This is so awesome," said Christie, buttoning the buttons on the coat. She picked up the hat and looked at it, then giggled again.

"It's the job," said Diana, and grinned at her.

Christie leaned in to kiss her on the mouth, but quickly. "Yeah, well, nice cover, Sherlock."

"Couldn't do it without you, Watson," Diana said. Her arms slipped around Christie's waist and she kissed her again, and once more. "Are we sure we don't want to stay home and, um, give out candy or something?" she asked, reverting to her usual pre-party whine.

But Christie slipped free and grabbed Diana's hand, pulling her after her toward the door. "You know trick-or-treating is tomorrow night," she said. "Don't be a party-pooper."

"Caffrey said that," she grumbled. "Apparently I'm a natural born party-harsher."

"So not true," said Christie, smiling at her partner impishly. "It just depends."

"Depends on _what_?" Diana growled.

"On the _party_," Christie said. She smiled at Diana, dark eyes twinkling.

"You look adorable," said Diana, smiling in spite of herself.

"I _do_," said Christie, and put on her hat.

"Even cuter," she sighed. "Apparently Caffrey has started a trend."

"Then don't be a trend-bucker," said Christie. "Put on _your_ hat and _come on_. I'm going to eat everything I want at the party tonight. I can't remember the last time I went to something where the catered food was decent."

"With Peter's wife doing the event, it should be pretty amazing."

"Better than trick-or-treating."

"Speaking of…." Said Diana. "You know those candy bars you bought to give out to the kids tomorrow…."

If the hospitality committee had hoped that a little bit of inspired silliness would let the agents unwind a little after days slogging after the bad guys, they were at least half-correct. The food was good, the venue better for having been transformed from their usual workaday office to a meeting-and-greeting place, and the costumes were natural conversation starters that didn't begin with, "Have you seen the Johnson file?" or "What's the status of our search warrant."

Jeri-Sue, from security, had come as FBI Barbie. "It's just me, with better lip gloss," she drawled.

Hughes had _not_ come as Sinatra. He had come as a magician, instead. "This only works until Caffrey shows up," he grumbled. "He'll probably try to teach me actual magic tricks."

Diana and Christie were a huge hit as Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, although there was more than one master detective there that night. Agent DeSoto came as Charlie Chan, someone was sneaking around in a fedora and a cape as The Shadow, and Normandy, from security, had geeked out as the Green Arrow.

"Nice tights," said Jenkins, shaking hands with him.

"Thanks," said Normandy. "The ladies seem to like them." While undeniably well-muscled, modesty was _not_ the man's strong suit—but his legs _might_ be. "It's not often they get to see gorgeous gams like this," he opined.

"We'll see," said Jenkins, and smiled.

Arguing in elevators might be passé, but it wasn't uncommon.

"There _is_ no such thing as _fashionably late_," said Neal. Sara managed not to roll her eyes.

"Okay, okay," she said. "So sue me."

"I'm considering it," Neal muttered.

"Besides, I wonder if Peter and El will even be here yet," said Sara. "Wouldn't it be better if they were already here before you—"

"Not necessarily," said Neal. "I'd like to actually _eat_ some of the food before I get thrown out."

"You aren't going to get thrown out!" Sara said, laughing. "This is a party—what's the worst that can happen?"

The elevator doors opened.

"Ready?" said Sara, and smiled her wicked smile.

"As I'll ever be," said Neal, and they started for the double glass doors.

Sometimes, when window-shopping, you will catch a glimpse of yourself and say, "Is _that_ what I look like?" This was one of those moments.

Sara and Neal stepped toward the glass doors just as Peter and El emerged from their own elevator. The women took one look at each other and laughed uproariously.

"El! You _fink_! You never said _a word_!" Sara said, reaching out to hug El. She was careful of her brunette locks, just as El was careful of her ginger ones. They grinned at each other, stepping back to get a better look.

"Great shoes," said El. "I have a pair almost _like_ those."

"I know. And I like the ones you're wearing."

"Well, I can't wear the ones _you_ wear, Sara, but these were as close as I could come."

The men were not—quite—as amused.

"I do _not_ look like that," said Peter, looking at Neal's carefully spray-painted hair. "And my suit is not that baggy."

"The how'd you know it was _you_?" Neal gave him an insufferable look, and Peter huffed out a breath, glad for the way it gave him room around the waist. "Hey—is that one of _my_ ties? Peter, were you in my tie drawer-?!"

"I will neither confirm or deny that this tie—"

"You are _sooo_ not funny."

"Speaking of," said Peter, holding his lapels. "How do you like _my_ Neal Caffrey?" Neal made a snatch for his hat, but Peter stepped back in time.

"Not so much," said Neal. "Is that one of Nickie's—"

"Yep. Got it from June."

"Well, give it _back_," Neal insisted. "You're going to break it or something."

"Speaking of _break_—how's that hair holding up."

Peter reached out to touch it and Neal shied away, grimacing. "Don't," he said. "I've got about 5 pounds of shellack on it."

"What'd you do to make it that funny color?"

"I could ask you the same thing. Shoe polish would be my guess."

"I could have worn a wig. I'm sure Mozzie has one lying around that looks just like you."

"Touché."

It had become funny after all. They grinned at each other, and then Peter inclined his head toward the laughing women. "Guess it's time to show off costumes or our better halves."

"El makes a pretty good Sara."

"Sara makes a pretty good El."

"She's had practice—"

"Neal!"

As usual, they went through the door arguing. 

There was a huge amount of good-natured ribbing on all sides, Neal and Peter getting the brunt of it, but the party was really just starting to be in full swing when a green M&M answered his phone and slipped off toward the elevators. Nobody noticed his departure, but _everybody_ noticed his return. On his arm was, perhaps, the most exotic creature at the entire party—statuesque, showing lots of leg and arm in a very succinct lilac dress with a feather boa covering gleaming, muscular arms. She was making desultory conversation with Jenkins, her long brown curls framing a chocolate complexion. Jenkins said something that must have been funny, for she laughed and nudged him playfully, her long lashes fluttering coquettishly. The chatter died completely for a moment when they entered, then picked up again, but the gazes were all drifting toward this very usual couple.

Well, not _all_ of the gazes were drifting that way. Diana had made a pit stop in the little agents' room and came back in after Jenkins and his date had been absorbed into the ebb and flow of conversation. Ever the ambassador for feminine pulchritude, Neal made his way over, shook Jenkins' hands and whispered something in the stunning amazon's ear. She reacted spectacularly, plum-shadowed eyelids flying up, mouth making a perfect "oh." Neal grinned, touched her arm and moved back to Sara, then leaned and whispered something in _her_ ear. She startled and looked toward the woman, then grinned up at Neal and smiled as though they shared a secret.

"Jenkins drummed up a pretty classy date," said El. Peter nodded, surprised, but was hampered in his attempts to crane his neck by the tightness of his suit jacket. He half-turned and frowned, his brow furrowing. It was funny to see his "thinking face" on his imitation-Neal face, and El smiled at him fondly.

"What?" she said. "I know that face."

"Of course you do," said Peter automatically. "It's _Neal's_ face."

"No—I mean, I know that thinking face."

"I know that woman," said Peter. "At least, I _think_ I do."

El came beside him, looking while hidden behind his silhouette. "She _does_ look familiar," said El. "Do you suppose—?"

But there was no more need for supposing. Diana turned, recognized the dress with some surprise, then looked up and _recognized the agent __**in**__ the dress._

"Jones!" she shouted. "I am going to _kill_ you."

Fake Diana was a huge hit, but Fake Diana's shoes were not. Clinton ditched them as soon as he was sure that Berrigan wasn't going to kill him. She _did_, however, punch him pretty smartly in his arm, which was no longer camouflaged by the feather boa.

"You are sooo doing my grunt work for a month," she muttered, and stalked off.

Neal sidled up to him, murmuring in his ear. "It was worth it, wasn't it?"

"Laugh all you _want_, Caffrey," Jones said. "_You'll_ be doing all of _my_ paperwork."

Neal straightened and squared his shoulders, put his hands on his hips. "You'll have to clear that with me," he said, doing his best imitation-Peter's-voice.

"Or he could just clear it with _me_," said Peter, coming up to them. He clapped Jones on the shoulder. "Good one, Jones," said Peter. "Can't wait to see that trophy on your desk."

Clinton grinned and hefted it, then leaned in closer. "You think she was really mad?"

"I think she was delighted you pulled one over on her," said Peter.

"I thought she might be," said Clinton. He leaned in a little closer. "I'm pretty delighted myself." Clinton the cross-dresser was making better time with his female colleagues than Clinton the upright agent. He had a pocket full of…well, a _bra_ full of phone numbers, and a determination to make good use of them.

The party was braking up, as parties are wont to do. By the time they left, Peter was carrying his jacket, Neal had reclaimed his tie and he was carrying El's purse. Neal and Sara walked out with them, passing Reese, who waved in a desultory fashion.

"Not a bad bash, Peter," said Peter to Neal.

"Not a bad bash at all, Neal." said Neal. "The food was wonderful."

"Of course it was," said Peter. "Your wife always puts on a great party."

"Clinton was the life of _this_ party."

"I want to know where he got that _dress_," said El. "I can't imagine anyplace that would sell that—"

"Garment district has a couple of places that…."

"Yeah, a place on…."

El looked at them askance. "Do I _want_ to know why you both know that?"

"No."

"Nope."

"Okay, then." She smiled and slipped her hands in the crook of his elbow, steering them toward the elevator.

Peter smiled at her, but turned to Neal. "You make a pretty funny Special Agent Burke," he said.

"Well, you make a _hilarious_ C.I. Caffrey," said Neal, giving Peter a look. "You better get home and get out of that thing—I don't think enough _air_ is getting to your head."

"Still enough brain power to keep up with you," said Peter.

Neal's grin was genuine. "Good to know."

"See you tomorrow."

"Goodnight, Peter."

Sara came up and smiled at Neal and they watched Peter and El get into the elevator. "Nice party," said Sara.

"Nice party," said Neal. "I'm ready to get home and get out of this."

"I am ready to help you," murmured Sara.

"Oh yeah?"

Sara's smile was wicked. "Yeah."


End file.
